The day dries me flowers & I thawto someone tolerable. The day calls mesurplus & demands I know which one he is.How many recipes for joy we’ve whipped.How many words aren’t there for grief.—Lover, seldom, seasonal questionsof occasional fury. I don’t know wherestrength as silence began, but I’m sureI was green then. I’ve been thin fora minute & proud at my core. Stirring,as naked broths. I know folks that stripthe fat from sentences expecting the marrowto speak. But I was raised for extra—rind-filled bellies; mosquitos, their hives; eventhe stripes of my climbing gourds, to loveto feed—to care—takes such:When the morning folds in, I turn to love& pour out only splices. Apple cores, knotsof ham & garlic, the saucepan hunger.I imagine I will always remember hownew the wave of ice feels so manyyears away, how we slide from rimto buttered edge. We are not fillingthe day with trifles so many yearsaway; we are filling it with me.The day breaks & frost retrofitsmy shoulders, neckline, all. Callingcard & no pick-up, the day scoopsme in its hands. Stark crisps of frictionperfume the buried jar I fall from& more is looking like a memory, a cloveof burned luck. I don’t assume I’m cold.